


i don't mind you under my skin

by thescrewtapedemos



Series: Radiation Blues [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Body Horror, Danger Days AU, One-Sided Relationship, Other, Vomiting, generally a lot of organs squishing around and such be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Danger says he can keep going without food doesn't mean he can. Danger lies; Franck knows that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't mind you under my skin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for body horror so there you go. enjoy!
> 
> xoxo

Franck wakes by unpleasant degrees. 

He becomes aware of cold first, the dull bitter desert cold he’s gotten to know but never fully adjusted to. He’s shivering a little bit, he notes. His mouth tastes like shit and he’s got a headache radiating from behind his eyes, a sharp ache that makes him groan a little bit. 

He kind of vaguely remembers getting out of his van in the late evening, lightheaded and breathing too fast. The gnawing pain in his stomach and the urge to run. He must have collapsed at some point. 

“Whoa,” someone says above him, and a hand settles on his shoulder to hold him in place. 

Fear trickles in between the fuzz of unconsciousness and the pain. Franck pries his eyes open, tries to blink away the gummy film of sleep. 

The man leaning over him isn’t BLI, he realizes in the first second. He’s wearing some stupid red jacket with a big letter K on it and, fucking Christ, sunglasses in the middle of the desert at _night_. He’s never seen anyone be that stupid about night vision in the zones, not Scarecrow and not Drac either. Franck doesn’t get the feeling he’s a killjoy either. A runner then, maybe. He’s pretty close to one of the bigger neutral towns. 

Franck growls wordlessly and the man withdraws his hand after a moment, eyebrows raising over his sunglasses. 

“Well,” says the man, and sits back on his heels. “You’re an odd little duckling for sure.” 

Belatedly Franck scrambles away, falling back on his elbows and crab-walking until he can get his legs under him, crouching at the edge of the ring of light. He shivers at the dark all around them. 

“Jesus, kid, I just found you sacked out on the ground, are you sure you should be moving?” the man asks, sounding less concerned than his words would imply. Franck ignores him anyway. He’s fine, if he’s awake and moving. He’ll live. 

The light’s coming from a flashlight the stranger has propped up in the dirt next to him. It’s dim and flickering and for a second a bolt of panic goes through Franck, slick and cold and sharp. Not for himself; he’s as safe as anyone can be, possibly the safest in the zones. For him, for this stranger with his strange jackets and odd mirrored sunglasses. 

He recognizes the flicker a moment later, though. It’s just old batteries, just an old flashlight on its last legs like everything else in the zones. Not anything but abjectly normal. Not… not anything to worry about. 

He spends a moment feeling reluctantly down, into the soft slosh of his organs and his aching bones. 

There’s nothing there, nothing but the scent of old blood in the corner of his nose and the feeling of wet sickness, ghostly and fading rapidly in his guts. 

Danger’s nowhere to be found, for once. 

“Danger doesn’t like you,” he realizes aloud, and then winces. He’s doing that thing, that familiar thing he does when he’s gone too long without speaking to anyone that talked back to know quite how to not-say things. He’d never had a totally solid grasp on social niceties even before- even back then. 

“You kidding me?” the man asks, sounding halfway puzzled and halfway amused. “Kid, danger _loves_ me.” 

The way he says _danger_ emphasizes the lower case. He doesn’t know what Franck’s talking about, not that Franck expected he would. 

He stares at the man, probably for too long, and then shakes his head once. 

“Yes,” he hazards, and stands shakily. He’s lightheaded – he’d listened to Danger too much, pushed himself too far, and he needs to eat. He wonders idly if the stranger has food. If he’s willing to share, willing to trade. Not that Franck has anything much to trade. 

“Weirdo,” the man says, though Franck can’t read any malice in it. Amusement, if anything. “The name’s Kavinsky.” 

“That your real name?” Franck snaps back and then bites down on the corner of his lip. He needs this stranger to like him, this Kavinsky. 

“No,” Kavinsky tells him, sounding more amused than ever. “Do I get something to call you or are you just gonna be ‘kid’?” 

“Franck,” Franck supplies. He doesn’t have any reason to lie. This man can do nothing with his name. Danger would see to that. 

“Is that _your_ real name?” Kavinsky asks, voice right on the verge of breaking into a laugh. He’s smiling behind his mirrored sunglasses and it’s not all that nice of a smile, but it’s not exactly malicious either. 

“Yeah,” Franck says, and then swallows as the world tilts a little in his vision. He’s still lightheaded and getting worse, dizziness setting in. It’s disturbing, familiar, and he expects the lukewarm trickle of Danger in the back of his throat and working its way up inside him, up through his organs and bones. The old-bathwater temperature, warm as saliva, tasting of old blood and moist, fertile earth. 

It sets Franck off-balance when it doesn’t come. Danger must really hate Kavinsky, must be absolutely livid wherever off beyond the circle of light it’s circling. 

He’s so absorbed he misses Kavinsky standing, doesn’t notice until Kavinsky’s reaching out to steady him. Franck tries to jerk away but succeeds pretty much only in almost collapsing. Kavinsky catches him, props him up with an arm under his. 

He’s cold, Franck notes distantly. He’s cold and he smells like metal and engine oil and… cigarettes? 

“Whoa, kid,” Kavinsky says, more cautiously. “You doing alright?” 

“Haven’t eaten in a while,” Franck says after a moment of dizzy consideration. It’s not like he can reveal _more_ weakness, and anyway he’s sure if he’d had anything _real_ to worry about Danger would have shown up no matter who Kavinsky is that keeps it at such a distance. 

“Well your little nest sure doesn’t have anything,” Kavinsky says and gestures casually back into the darkness, in the direction Franck remembers leaving his van. He cuts his eyes up at Kavinsky when he realizes what he’d said; he’d _gone looking_ through Franck’s things. 

Kavinsky catches the look and laughs, casual as anything. 

“You were out, it was there, had to make sure you weren’t BLI or something” he says unapologetically and starts to move, steering Franck’s shaking legs back towards the flashlight. “I’ve got some food, I’m willing to share.”

“I can’t… don’t have anything to trade,” Franck says, tongue exhaustion-numb. Kavinsky rumbles another laugh. Franck’s kind of warming to it, in a way. He’s never really met many people willing to laugh so much in his presence. 

“Yeah, I know,” Kavinsky says easily. “Would have found it, I’m sure. It’s fine.” 

Kavinsky’s car looms in the darkness and when Kavinsky bends to scoop up the flashlight, shines it in the direction of the car, Franck gasps involuntarily. 

It’s a beautiful car, pretty as hell and shining like sin in the weak flashlight beam. Crouching low and sleek and dangerous looking. Franck wants to touch in a way he hasn’t before, not much of a car person. This one is different, seems to be almost alive in the slow play of light over its frame. Like it’s stretching and preening with the attention. 

“That’s my baby,” Kavinsky says, and there’s something so worshipful in his tone that Franck has to honk out a laugh. It breaks the fascination. The car’s too clean, too nice-looking. There’s something going on, in this cold man and his clean, pretty car. Something not-right. 

Franck finds he doesn’t give much of a fuck. His stomach is beginning to gnaw again, waking slowly. 

“Food,” he says, and Kavinsky snorts. 

“Give me a fucking second, kid,” he says, and steps away towards the car. 

The darkness presses in around Franck and he shivers once. He can’t feel Danger still. It’s almost terrifying, the lack. He doesn’t know how long he has. 

Kavinsky returns fast, a little bag and a can in his hands. He tosses them over, a slow underhand motion Franck barely fumbles to catch. He doesn’t bother to check over what he’d been given. It’s a gift, and he’s grateful. 

“Thank you,” he says carefully. Kavinsky’s head cocks and Franck gets the impression he’s being examined through the mirrored, dark lenses. 

“You can owe me,” Kavinsky says at last, laughter in his tone like some private joke Franck’s missing out on. “I got the feeling we’ll be seeing each other again.” 

“Alright,” Franck says and bobs a nod. It’s a fair deal. 

Kavinsky holds out a hand and waits expectantly. Franck blinks at it and then up at him, confused. 

“Gonna shake hands or what, kid,” Kavinsky asks patiently. Jerkily Franck frees a hand and hesitantly puts his palm to Kavinsky’s. 

The handshake is awkward and leaves heat blooming unfamiliar in Franck’s cheeks but Kavinsky just grins at him, still as sly and a little mean as ever. 

“I’ll see you around, Franck,” Kavinsky says, and then he’s walking away, back to Franck like there’s nothing to be scared of in turning his back to a stranger. Maybe there isn’t, for him. Franck knows he’s similar. 

When Kavinsky’s driven away with a wave and a rev of his engine and Franck’s walked back to his van he eats, leaning against the cool metal. It’s slightly stale bread and half a can of Power Pup, not a lot but enough to keep Franck going for a few days maybe. Enough to get him to the next settlement, scrounge around for something to trade or some work to do. 

He can feel Danger’s eyes on him, twin pinpricks far off in the gloom he can only see out of the corner of his eye. The moon’s gone down and with Kavinsky gone Franck isn’t quite sure why Danger’s holding back. It’s angry, Franck can feel it in the air. Beyond angry, there’s furious violent intent churning just beyond the edge of what Franck can see. 

The kibble goes down difficult but satisfying and he tosses the can into the back of the van through the open window, turning to stare into the dark. The dark stares back, poised and silent and waiting. 

“I know you’re there,” Franck shouts at last, when the waiting has gotten to be a trembling in his lungs. “What are you waiting for?” 

The dark shivers around him and he realizes suddenly that the moon gone, but the stars are too. The desert is a dark flat space, the sky a lighter dark above it, featureless and vertigo-inducing. The only lights are in front of him now, Danger’s eyes bright in the dark, plain to see for once. It still doesn’t move, though. It’s waiting. 

“What, are you scared still-,” Franck begins, loud and bitingly mocking, and then the darkness is rushing in like a wave and he’s drowning in it, slamming against the side of the car and then falling to his knees. His mouth had been open and there’s something in it now, something tepid and alive, pushing down his throat and gagging him for a moment before it’s dissipating like smoke. He coughs and spits. His mouth is full of fluid, half saliva and half… something else. 

It tastes a little bit like gasoline. It tastes a lot like blood. 

“Got you, you fucker,” he mutters thickly, through the oily stuff leaking between his teeth. “Got one fucking over you, I won this time, I-,” 

He’s cut off by a retch, the taste of fresh bile in his mouth as something deep inside of him _shifts_. He gags, gags again on more Danger, warmish and roiling and angry. It’s in his throat and inside him, twisting through his guts, twining and _moving_. 

He vomits and it’s just black, thin fluid. It trails in skinny strings from his lips and tastes like dirt. He closes his eyes and heaves again, knowing it’ll just be more of the same. Danger will keep the food down, wants him alive. 

“F-fuck you,” he hisses again when he can breathe. 

The phantom touch to his cheek has his eyes shooting open. Danger’s eyes are glowing at him from inches away through the darkness and he breathes in before he can think. With it Danger’s in his mouth again, riding his breath and forcing into his lungs. It’s like breathing smoke, wet smoke that twists and presses and doesn’t come out no matter how much he coughs. 

Its eyes don’t cease glowing, watching him struggle until he finally reaches something like equilibrium in a series of shallow breaths. Two white circles of light and the vague suggestion of a dark shape, almost humanoid except so wrong, fading into the blackness around it. 

“You fucking hate him,” Franck says and grins, exhausted and triumphant, when Danger’s head twists angrily. “I’ll find out why, you know. I’ll kill you someday, you bastard.” 

He’s expecting it when his head slams into the cold sand. Danger’s hand is on the back of his skull, pressing his face into the dirt, lukewarm fingers winding in his hair. Too long, the wrong shape, infinitely flexible and infinitely strong. Something’s dripping across his face, too cool to be his own blood. He can feel _that_ , hot trickles from where he’d bitten his lip and pooling in his hair. 

They’re still for a long moment, several shallow breaths, a handful of labored, distant heartbeats. 

Danger’s hand lightens and moves, turns the motion into a caress. It’s bizarrely gentle and Franck shuts his eyes against it, twitching violently. He can’t shake Danger off, he knows that. It’s not like that. 

Something shifts again, above his stomach and behind his lungs. He gags once just with shock and then Danger’s pressing in against his back, tepid touch all wrong and inhuman. It's phantom, horrifying fingers are still in his hair and there’s another hand running over his shoulder, pressing against the bare skin of his forearm greedily. 

The touch feels like it wrenches his whole body and in the trailing echo of the sensation come words. He doesn’t hear them, not exactly. They’re the roil in his stomach and the trickle of mixed blood and Danger from his mouth.

 _i love you,_ Danger says. 

“I hate you,” Franck whispers into the dirt and knows the loathing he’s feeling, bone-deep and hot, is entirely and utterly useless. “I _hate_ you. I’m going to kill you, I hate you, I hate you.” 

_i love you,_ Danger repeats, implacable and unconcerned. 

Danger’s gone when the sun comes up, when Franck finally rouses from the trance not-sleep he’d been lulled into by the motion of hand in his hair and cool, shifting touch. As gone as it can ever be, down to a sick feeling in Franck’s gut and the shifting of shadows that shouldn’t, couldn’t move. Franck’s safe in daylight, most of the time. 

He spits and the saliva is black. The back of his throat tastes of dirty blood. 

His car is a mess when he climbs behind the wheel and he smiles for a minute into the watery morning sun, exhausted and shaking. _Kavinsky_. It’s something.


End file.
